


Your Hand

by reedenryete



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reedenryete/pseuds/reedenryete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was half-asleep when Draco slipped it onto his finger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hand

**Title:**  “Your Hand”  
 **Rating:**  PG-13  
 **Pairing:**  Harry/Draco  
 **Summary:**  He was half-asleep when Draco slipped it onto his finger.  
 **Word Count:**  2,500  
 **Warnings:**  Nonsensical, unapologetic fluff.

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Harry stirred slowly, eyes still closed, as the kinks in his neck, shoulders and back cracked into relaxation. He let a satisfied sigh hum between his lips and sank deeper into the cushions. His body ached beautifully, a bit sore, but fulfilled. He always relished the leisurely rise in the morning after a long night with Draco.  
  
A chuckle to his left caught his attention.  
  
“Good morning, Potter.”  
  
Harry turned his head lazily to the side and peeled his heavy eyelids open. His vision was still bleary from disuse, but he could make out the sunlight peeking through Draco’s ridiculously expensive curtains and the bold, stark-white, blond hair in the fuzzy outline of the man by Harry’s side.  
  
Draco held Harry’s hand in his own, his pale thumb brushing gently over the bridge of Harry’s knuckles back-and-forth in an absent-minded comfort. The corners of Draco’s mouth quirked into a light smile. Harry felt his own answering back.  
  
Harry was about to ask Draco why he was up so early, especially because this was their first day off in God knows how long, but all that came out was a choked sound.  
  
“What the  _hell--_ ”  
  
He ripped his hand from Draco’s hold and sat upright. No longer in his unhurried rouse, but fully alert, Harry instinctively gripped the duvet that pooled in his lap, needing something to clutch onto as shock coursed through his system. He stretched out his other arm to look at the cause.  
  
It glittered back at him in an almost mischievous hello.  
  
A thick ring made of braided platinum and gold sat on his finger, as if it belonged there all along and Harry had just noticed it.  
  
Except he had just noticed it.  
  
Harry’s wide eyes flickered down to his hand and up to Draco’s raised brow and back again, as his other hand frantically felt for his glasses lost amongst the bed sheets.  
  
“To your right. On the dresser,” Draco said helpfully, albeit with a slight tinge of annoyance, used to this morning struggle. Honestly, for an Auror, how could Potter be defeated daily by something so effortless?  
  
Harry reached out and blindly patted the top of Draco’s equally ridiculously expensive bureau -- probably not as expensive as this… _this thing_  on his hand that could bankrupt Gringotts and why could he not stop  _staring_  at it -- before finally palming his glasses and pushing them onto his face lopsided.  
  
He gasped.  
  
With his vision corrected, he saw its full-blown colors and vibrancy.  
  
It was simple, strong, sturdy. Durable. It was a work of art. And it definitely cost more than those curtains and bureau combined. His mouth wordlessly opened and closed, turning his hand over and over again, as if the ring would suddenly get Vanished.  
  
Draco snorted at the sight of Harry’s askew glasses. He righted them and tucked in a few, stray brunet hairs behind Harry’s ears. He playfully flicked the tip of Harry’s nose to get his attention and tilted Harry’s chin up with his thumb and forefinger.  
  
“You awake now?” Draco asked with an amused smirk.  
  
Harry looked into the patient, steel grey eyes carefully watching him.  
  
“Er, I think I might still be dreaming,” he said, stunned.  
  
He thought he had imagined the feel of cool metal sliding onto his finger when he was half-asleep, but it obviously wasn’t just his imagination.  
  
“Oh, so, you’ve dreamt about this before?” Draco goaded him, motioning toward the ring.  
  
“What? No! I’m -- I didn’t expect. I never thought you would do this. Want this? With me? I’m fine with how we already are -- I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to, it’s just,” Harry spluttered, indignant and flustered, “How and when did you -- Oh, why are you even up this early and springing this on me on our day off?”  
  
He yelped at last with an embarrassed scowl, getting back to the first question he had today.  
  
“On the contrary, it’s not that I’m up early. I couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night. The past month, even. I was trying to figure out how to do this,” Draco grumbled, gesturing between them.  
  
“I knew you’d despise it if I had gone with my Malfoy traditions or other pureblood customs, or those dance flash-mob videos Muggles are partial to nowadays. This was the best, non-ostentatious way I came up with. I knew you wouldn’t like anything flashy, which is surprising, because you Gryffindors are always so naturally outrageous and showy.”  
  
Harry shuddered. He remembered Draco telling him stories of how Lucius proposed to Narcissa with an elaborate display of charmed-singing-doves, skipping flowers and other painfully tacky things. Ginny, a pureblood witch herself, was proposed to by her pureblood Quidditch Beater boyfriend at their latest match. It had been all over the Prophet. The guy took extravagant means to Bludger offending players and somehow had their bodies contorted into the shape of “Marry Me?” at the bottom of the field. Ginny was the only girl Harry knew who was crazy enough to find something as grotesque as that, and most likely illegal, romantic.  
  
Draco knew him all too well. He would have hated for Draco to waste his time with a wasteful, lavish, overdone performance. But he also knew Draco all too well. Draco was talking too much. Which meant Draco was nervous.  
  
The blond droned on and on, most likely complaining about other things that Harry made difficult for him, but Harry tuned him out. Draco’s tone of voice betrayed nothing, but Harry could see the way Draco’s cheeks tinted red, the way his eyes darted everywhere in their bedroom except for Harry, the way his hands fluttered incessantly as he spoke.  
  
Suddenly, Harry remembered a while back that Draco had joked about getting down on one knee with an entire choir singing around them, while fireworks blasted to the beat of the music in the background. Harry had scoffed, calling it the most stupid idea he had ever heard. He had wondered why Draco’s face had gone so pale, which was saying something, because the man was already pale as it was…  
  
“Are you even listening to me?” Draco demanded, shooting a leery glance at the silly grin that had slowly laced itself onto Harry’s lips.  
  
“Of course,” Harry lied smoothly.  
  
“Anyway, as I was saying, hence why I chose to do it now. You have a habit of running away, and I couldn’t have you scurrying off before giving me a proper response. I knew you’d have a hard time running away if you were half-asleep. And half-naked,” Draco explained candidly, unashamed and factual, as if he were talking about the weather.  
  
“Uh, yeah, I probably would have,” Harry agreed lamely.  
  
He blushed, peeking at the ring again. Had Draco chosen another time, he  _would_  have fought tooth and nail. Not because he didn’t love Draco, but because he’d wonder if deserved this.  
  
He’d wonder if he had the right to be happy. To this day, he had occasional dark spells when he thought about the War. His parents, Sirius, Hedwig, Dumbledore, Snape, Fred, Tonks, Remus, everyone.  
  
But Draco was there. He was always there. Rubbing his back, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, soothing him through his guilt.  
  
Draco wasn’t the overprotective shadow that was Hermione, nor was he the overly lenient enabler that was Ron. Draco didn’t shelter him from adversity, but shielded him from attacks. Draco didn’t control him, but gave him the structure he needed to control his chaotic life. Draco learned long ago not to tame him, but to run as wild and free with him.  
  
It had taken a good, tiring, six years, but those were the best six years of Harry’s life. They weren’t supposed to work in every sense, but here they were – Harry and Draco, surviving.  
  
If their relationship could withstand the exchange of truce-laden-but-daggered glares between Lucius and Harry over dinner at Malfoy Manor (more often than not, Narcissa would scold Lucius and take Harry’s side, Harry thought smugly), and if their relationship could eventually convince the sour, reluctant Weasleys to turn around, to the point where Molly doted on Draco so much it grated on Ron’s (and sometimes Harry’s) nerves, maybe he and Draco could get through anything.  
  
Draco challenged him, pushed him, inspired him, fought him, fought  _for_  him.  
  
Draco loved him.  
  
And although he never said it often, not as often as Harry said it at least, he showed Harry through actions, big and small, every day. Whether it was through making him tea in the morning or putting away his glasses on the dresser at night when Harry fell asleep with them on, he loved Harry. He was showing Harry he loved him right now.  
  
When Harry questioned if he had the right to be happy, Draco gave him the courage to find happiness. But could he give Draco that same happiness? A lifetime of it?  
  
“This is the most quiet you’ve been. You’re an impulsive idiot -- you never think before you act. Say something,” Draco said, observing Harry uneasily as he tugged at the frayed strands on their comforter. “Your thoughtful look is unnerving me here, Potter. The constipation-induced feel it must be producing is marring your otherwise appealing facial features.”  
  
Harry toyed with the ring a few more moments, twisting it distractedly around his finger.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he announced decisively, letting the last few comments slide. He knew Draco was anxious and was defaulting back to their Hogwarts days when he derided Harry for any sort of reaction.  
  
Draco scoffed, “Of course it’s beautiful. I picked it. But you haven’t answered my question.”  
  
Harry could have taken pity on Draco then. He could see how the worry was steadily worming its way up Draco’s entire body, how it looked like Draco was struggling to breathe. Harry knew how it felt to have a hard time breathing -- one time Hagrid accidentally sat on him. But he was Harry Potter, and so he would make things difficult.  
  
“Well, I can’t answer because you haven’t asked the question yet,” Harry teased him with an earnest smile.  
  
Draco gave him a stern stare, before shaking his head fondly. The blond slunk off the bed with a snakelike-ness that never went away after they graduated and knelt on the floor. Bent on one knee, he grasped Harry’s hand and kissed it soundly, like he was paying reverence to a king.  
  
“Harry Potter, Lord and Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy-Who-Lived-With-The-Most-Atrocious-Hair that even magic cannot tame, even when I try so desperately hard to make him presentable because he has to accompany me to my public functions,” Draco began with a mock sneer. (Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Typical. Leave it up to Draco to insult him in what was supposed to be the most romantic moment of his life. But Harry let it slide once more because Draco’s word vomit meant he was nervous enough to actually vomit.)  
  
“You wouldn’t take my hand back then,” Draco continued (This is where Harry --again -- resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Draco  _still_  hadn’t let that go? They were 11-years-old, for goodness’ sake!), “so now I’m taking yours.”  
  
Draco gazed pointedly at the ring, quiet for a few moments, as if considering the weight of his decision, everything that came before it and everything that would come tomorrow. Then he looked up at Harry with his most handsome smile. Harry literally felt his heart stalling and skipping a beat.  
  
“Marry me.”  
  
Those two words nearly undid Harry as waves of unexpected emotion crashed and overwhelmed him. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, but most importantly, he wanted to slap himself to his senses for being so emotional. Perhaps this was Karma for when he made fun of Hermione and Ginny as soon as they started bawling during their proposals.  
  
“That still technically wasn’t a question, Malfoy,” Harry intoned, his voice nearly quivering, as he joked in an attempt to stop the tears welling in his eyes from escaping.  
  
Clearly, Draco didn’t think it was funny as he made to stand in an aggravated huff.  
  
“Harry  _Fucking_  Potter, the man who I had the most sincere misfortune of falling in love with, who makes me believe the sun shines out his arse -- which is very tempting, by the way, and is largely the reason I probably proposed to begin with -- he must have charmed it somehow -- with his stupidly admirable morals that put the rest of society to shame and his foolish, constant need to take care of others, I -- oof!”  
  
Harry leapt off their bed and barreled Draco to the ground before he could finish his rant. Draco landed on his back, propped on his elbows, glowering at his sudden lapful of Potter with a surly expression. Harry beamed, laughing joyously, his eyes warm with affection, as he threaded his fingers through Draco’s hair and cradled the back of his neck.  
  
“You are a headache,” Draco sighed, settling himself upright and wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist.  
  
Harry face was so close to his, Draco could feel Harry’s lashes delicately brush against his skin and he felt the tension ooze out of his body as he inhaled Harry’s scent.  
  
“As are you, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Harry grinned. His hands moved to cup Draco’s cheeks, his thumbs stroking the high-bone structure, as their shared breaths mingled.  
  
“You can take my hand. You can take my whole heart,” he whispered finally. “Yes.”  
  
Harry pressed his lips against Draco’s, firmly and softly all at once. It was fervent, feverish, but also slow, passionate. He put his happiness, his certainty, his love in his kiss.  
  
“Draco?” Harry pulled back, surprised when he didn’t feel the usual questing tongue.  
  
Draco, whose eyes had closed under Harry’s gentle ministrations, blinked once. Twice. Almost as Harry’s had done when he first woke up this morning. He looked at Harry, and Harry felt his heart skip again when he saw the undertones of relief, but something so much more than happiness in Draco’s face.  
  
Two seconds later, a wicked smirk was back on Draco’s lips.  
  
“My, my, how uncharacteristically romantic of you, Gryffindork. How about we pick up where we left off last night with a little engagement celebration, yeah?”  
  
He flipped them over, Harry’s laughs gradually becoming moans, and he made Harry say, “Yes, yes,  _yes_ ” of a different kind over and over again.

 

  
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**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, thank you for reading first Harry/Draco piece. I’ve been a long-time fan, though, and it’s about time I paid my dues by contributing to the fandom. Aside from this being my first Harry/Draco story, this is the first time I’ve written fiction in a good two or three years, so apologies – my writing muscles are a bit out of exercise, but this was a fun way to stretch them out.
> 
> Anyway, this quick, fluffy one-shot came about after I read some depressingly heart-wrenching Harry/Draco angst. The stories were unbelievably beautiful, but I was left so dazed, I couldn’t get out of the funk I was in until I had another fic to cuddle with. And lo and behold, “Your Hand” was born. It’s not completely compliant to the HP timeline, but oh, well! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
